


Survival Protocol

by lucymonster



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Stormtrooper Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 20:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15372387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: It was supposed to be an easy deployment - two weeks on an armoured groundcar crossing the Lehon Desert. That was before the rebels hit.Now FN-2187 is stranded and the rest of the ground crew are dead. He has plenty of food and first aid supplies and also, weirdly, Kylo Ren. But he doesn't have any proper shelter, and the temperature is dropping fast.





	Survival Protocol

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [finnlomod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnlomod/pseuds/finnlomod) in the [FinnloFest2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FinnloFest2018) collection. 



He’s only involved in the first place because of a stupid rostering error. While the rest of his corps are stationed in Rakata Prime’s sheltered valley capital, enjoying fresh local rations and a break from combat training, FN-2187 finds himself shipped off into assfuck nowhere on a heavily armoured groundcar bound for Desten outpost. Field sanitation duty. All because Sergeant Calvo decided at the last minute that Kylo Ren shouldn’t have to face the inconvenience of heating his own ration packs or scrubbing his own damn refresher on a two-week trip through the wastelands of the Lehon Desert.

In fairness, if FN-2187 were in charge, he too would have questioned the decision to assign twelve elite VC commandos without a single support officer to keep their camp from festering in the heat. VC corps are legendary for their battle skills. Less so for their personal hygiene.

No one has told FN-2187 what the hell kind of mission this is, but it’s obviously important. His corps buddies gagged with envy when he got picked – to them, the assignment sounded like a once-in-a-lifetime chance to show their dedication to the cause in front of a whole combat unit and a top-ranking member of high command. FN-2187 just wants to keep his head down and get back to the safety of the capital as soon as possible.

Which is why, when the skirmish starts and the road on either side of them erupts in a hail of laser fire, he’s in the cramped back container moving supplies around with his blaster out of reach.

He’s run ambush simulations a million times before. Passed them with flying colours, even helped a few of his slower corps buddies over the finish line. But those sims were missing one crucial variable: the heavy crate that comes crashing down from overhead storage when the groundcar hits a landmine.

It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t anything, really. There’s the shock of something heavy colliding with the top of his helmet, and a high-pitched ringing in his ears, and someone in the front of the car is shouting, “IED! IED!” but the sounds don’t mean anything and the world is going dark.

The pain catches up soon enough.

Oh boy, does it catch up.

He’s flat on his back with no memory of falling. Outside has gone quiet: no more shouting, no more laser fire. And he’s moving. He’s – he’s hovering, rising up off the ground like a cloud car, and man, this really isn’t doing wonders for the searing nausea that’s radiating through his stomach from the pain-point in his head.

“Stop it,” he says, not sure who he’s talking to but not really caring as long as they listen. Up above him, the container roof is crumpled like a laundry pile. So much for all that armour plating. “Put me back down. I’m not–” Oh, hell, he’s going to be sick if the world keeps moving like this. “Not trained for levitation.”

“Really? I’ll have to talk to Phasma about her curriculum,” says a voice.

“Not Phasma–”

“Just hold still, I’m trying to pull you out.”

“I’m gonna puke.”

“No you’re not,” says the voice. “You’re going to close your eyes and relax.”

“I’m going to close my eyes and relax,” says FN-2187.

And then everything goes dark again. Not violently this time, but gently, like a blanket falling over him as his consciousness snaps a tired salute and clocks off for the rest of the duty shift.

–

There’s sandstone above him, etched and weathered by the elements. A natural overhang, too shallow to be called a cave, shaded from the sun and sheltered from the desert winds that hiss and howl around it. FN-2187’s helmet is off and his head is resting on a lumpy gear pack half-submerged in the banked-up sand.

He sits up. Big mistake. His stomach lurches and his vision whites out, and a voice nearby says, “I’d take it easy. You might be concussed.”

The world comes slowly back into focus. Dazed, still fighting back nausea, FN-2187 gulps in desert air and blinks at the man sitting against the sandstone wall with his elbows resting on his loosely bent knees. Kylo Ren has taken off his own helmet, too, as well as his cowl and overcoat, and underneath them…

The FN corps have tossed around a theory or two in their downtime, just amongst themselves. Everyone does it. Masks aren’t an unusual sight around base, in and of themselves, but Ren’s whole vibe is so gut-level unsettling that it’s hard not to fill in the visual blanks to match. Nine-Two thinks he must be hiding some hideous disfigurement, something even worse than the Supreme Leader’s scars. Slip swears he once caught a glimpse of tentacles poking out from under the helmet.

But it turns out Ren’s just a normal guy. Human. A few years older than FN-2187’s batch, but younger than Hux and Phasma and most of the senior officers. Dark-haired and mole-flecked, a little over-endowed in the nose department but otherwise completely unremarkable. “What happened?” FN-2187 asks, and then quickly adds, “Sir?”

Sitting there like that with his mask off, he doesn’t look much like a sir. FN-2187 blinks again to try and shake off his daze.

“The local rebels sent out a welcome party,” says Ren. “We should have seen it coming.” There’s no reprimand in his voice – just a calm observation. Without the vocoder, his voice has a natural warmth that clashes impressively with everything else about him. “Once you’re feeling better, you need to fix this comlink so I can call for backup. We’re safe here for now, but the groundcar’s trashed and we can’t move too far forward or back without exposing ourselves to another attack.”

“VC corps?” FN-2187 asks.

Ren shakes his head. FN-2187 feels sick again – all of them? In the blink of an eye, just like that? – but no details follow, and on closer inspection he realises Ren didn’t make it out unscathed either. What he took for part of Ren’s right sleeve is actually a heavy-duty bacta patch rolled round and around his arm like a bandage. The fastening has that characteristic DIY sloppiness that says he probably had to hold it taut with his teeth.

It must have been one hell of a fight FN-2187 missed. Bile and relief rise in his throat in roughly equal quantities.

“I don’t know how to fix the comlink,” he says, swallowing.

“What? You’re field support.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sanitation.”

There’s a long, tense pause. “Sanitation.”

“Yes, sir. I went straight into the specialist stream after graduating.”

Ren’s face goes as blank as his mask, and for a frightening second, FN-2187 thinks he might be about to witness the legendary temper that so many active-duty troopers have whispered about. But Ren only shakes his head and sighs. “Okay, then. Once you’re feeling better, you can go round the back of this rock and dig us a pit toilet. Looks like we could be stuck here for a while – lucky I’ve got a specialist with me.”

–

The temperature drops fast as the sun sets. The sandstone shelters them from the worst of the winds, but clear skies and bone-dry air mean there’s nothing to trap the heat. They can’t light a fire in case it draws more rebels to their hiding spot, so they unpack the supply bag Ren dragged with them from the groundcar, wrap themselves in crumpled blankets and fill their stomachs with unheated ration packs.

FN-2187’s headache has cleared, but he still feels tired and disoriented. Maybe it’s a mild concussion, but it could just as easily be shock at how fast the mission deteriorated, or simple confusion with where he’s at now: alone in the Lehon Desert with a top-ranked commander, trying to convince his fatigue-logged brain that now of all times he should be minding Captain Phasma’s advice. _Stormtroopers should be seen and not heard. Don’t bother officers with your mindless chatter._

But FN-2187 never did master that part of his training. He’s always been a talker, and right now, Ren is the only person for miles around to talk to. Besides, even though he’s in charge, he’s not technically an officer – he doesn’t have a rank or a uniform or anything – and in a situation like this, surely it’s okay to relax the usual strict hierarchical protocols. Ren without his mask feels unexpectedly approachable, which of course is probably why he wears the thing. Wouldn’t want underlings like FN-2187 getting too chummy.

Oh well. “Sir, what actually went down out there? I’m still catching up.”

Ren regards him closely for a moment. In the twilight, his eyes have an eerie focus – like he’s looking straight _through_ the world, instead of at it. That’s another thing FN-2187 has heard rumours about. The otherworldly powers that aren’t supposed to exist but that Supreme Leader Snoke and Ren have both mastered. The powers Ren must have used to pull him out of the wrecked groundcar – he may have hit his head pretty hard, but he’s sure that memory of levitating off the ground is real.

“They lined the whole road with hidden explosives,” Ren says at last. “It wasn’t just bandits, it was an organised band of Rakatan insurgents, and they knew exactly where we’d be. I was off-guard, got knocked down, and half our detachment was already dead by the time I got back up. It was a coward’s ambush.”

Cowards maybe, but damn effective ones. FN-2187 can’t help but feel a grudging admiration for these rebels, who’ve been hanging on undaunted since the Order moved in on this planet several months ago. The fact that they’re outnumbered and wildly outgunned hasn’t stopped them from wreaking havoc on unlucky convoys that venture out past the capital. So far the Lehon region’s been safe, but apparently there’s a first time for everything.

“Cowards,” he echoes, in the sneering tone he’s learned from countless educational holovids on the topic of rebel scum. There’s no reason for him not to be sincere, but there’s a strange, crawling feeling in the back of his mind and he gets the uncomfortable sense that Ren isn’t buying his disgust. “Where are they now?”

“Killed them,” says Ren blandly. “But there are probably more nearby.”

Ah. “Well, uh. Thank you for pulling me out of there, sir.”

Ren shrugs. He gives FN-2187 another one of those eerily perceptive looks. “Why are you on this mission, trooper? Ambush or not, you don’t exactly have the skillset for it.”

“Sergeant Calvo wanted to impress you,” FN-2187 says, maybe a bit too honestly. His brain's still working a leisurely half-step behind his mouth.

“And you’re his most impressive asset?”

“VC corps are his most impressive asset, but he thought the smell might take some of the shine off.”

Ren’s lips twitch. In the deepening twilight, FN-2187 almost misses it. “Right. So what was your job supposed to be? Hose them down every couple of days?”

FN-2187 enjoys that mental image a lot – until he remembers that the whole VC corps detachment is now dead in a sandy grave somewhere nearby, and it’s probably too soon to be smirking over their corpses. But that’s not a hang-up Ren shares, going by the amused look on his face. Why should he share it? To high command, troopers have always been disposable. When they get back to base – if they get back to base – someone’s going to update the mission records and scratch the fallen VC serial numbers off the personnel list, and that’ll be everything taken care of. Twelve lives reduced to nothing but an admin note.

Still. Ren pulled him out. Disposable or not, Ren stopped in the heat of battle with an injured arm and pulled FN-2187 out of the jaws of certain death.

Night falls, and the air starts to bite in earnest. FN-2187 has his bodyglove and his armour, but the gear’s all made to breathe in battle rather than to shield him from the elements. He’s not looking forward to trying to sleep in it. Though it won't be as uncomfortable as the hypothermia he’ll risk by stripping down.

Next to him, concealed by darkness, Ren shivers and pull his blanket closer.

“Sir,” says FN-2187 hesitantly. “There’s a, uh, survival protocol–”

“I know,” says Ren. “Lose the plates, though, I don’t want to hear you clanking all night.”

The armour doesn’t clank, but that’s not really a point worth debating. Bodyglove plus extra human body is going to be warmer than full kit plus empty bed. So FN-2187 strips off his armour, fingers trembling from cold, and by the time he’s done Ren has found a patch of sand off the rocky ground that’s large enough for the two of them to lie comfortably together.

Ren lies down on his side, facing away, and FN-2187 – stiff from a killer combo of cold and awkwardness – eases into place beside him. They’re not huge blankets, but he still makes an effort to leave Ren some discretion over exactly how much personal space they’re sharing. He needn’t have worried. Ren immediately shuffles in so they’re back to back. It takes some work to arrange the blankets to cover them both, but they manage it, and after a bit of wriggling they end up pressed close together with the blankets wrapped tight around them both like a twin-sized cocoon.

It’s warmer immediately.

But this isn’t a barracks sleepover – there’s no talking. FN-2187 closes his eyes, and it doesn’t take long for the fatigue of the day to catch up to him. Warmth relaxes his rigid muscles, and before he knows it he’s drifting off to the quiet ebb and flow of Ren’s breath close beside him.

–

The world’s a warm and cheerful place when FN-2187 wakes up.

He hasn’t forgotten where he is. At some point in the night he’s rolled over, and so has Ren, and in his semi-conscious state it doesn’t strike him as any kind of problem that he’s lying in bed with his arm wrapped snugly around Ren’s waist. There should be more of this, he thinks – more comfort, more closeness, more warmth. Less angry propaganda officers yelling about rebel scum and more sleep-soft bodies snuggled together against the cold. Ren’s head is tucked under his chin, breath and mussed-up hair tickling his neck. His gloved hand rests loosely on FN-2187’s hip and one solid thigh is pressed right up against –

Oh shit.

Ohhh, shit.

FN-2187 sits bolt upright. He regrets it immediately when icy morning air floods their nest, and Ren wakes with a very un-commander-like yelp and shouts, “What the hell, trooper?”

“Sorry, sir!” FN-2187 gasps, body seizing up against the sudden brutal shift in temperature. It’s awful, but it beats having to try and explain away his morning wood if Ren had woken up a few moments earlier. At least the cold has taken care of that. “Thought I heard something. We’re fine. Coast clear.”

Ren growls a few jumbled curses and buries himself back under the blankets.

As the morning sun creeps up over the horizon and a hint of the coming day’s warmth starts bleeding into the air, FN-2187 takes stock of their situation. Their rocky overhang is decent shelter from the sun and the wind, but they’re going to be in trouble if a sandstorm comes along. Their supply bag has water and ration packs to last a few days, plus some basic first aid gear and a small toolkit for field repairs. The comlink has no visible signs of damage, but the power button doesn’t work and neither does a round of rough percussive therapy, which pretty much exhausts FN-2187’s troubleshooting capabilities.

Ren’s still trailing blankets when he finally emerges. He takes the comlink, the toolkit and a ration pack out into the sun, mixes oatmeal powder into a mug of cold water and pries open the comlink casing, studying its insides with narrowed eyes. “If they don’t hear from us back at base, they’ll send out a search party soon enough. But I’d rather skip the wait.”

“Do you know how to fix it?” FN-2187 asks.

“Nope.”

It doesn’t look like he plans to let that minor detail stop him. FN-2187 follows him out into the sun and sits down on a rock nearby, munching a protein bar and watching Ren’s face cycle through focus, puzzlement and frustration as he prods at the wiring. It’s not like there’s anything better to watch. Some sand eddies every now and then. A few small lizards peek out from cracks in the rock.

Now he’s had time to settle into the weirdness of it, Ren’s not actually all that bad to look at. There’s a bit too much nose there, sure, but it fits his face, and he has high cheekbones and floppy hair and an unconscious habit of sticking his tongue out between his teeth when he concentrates. If Ren were a trooper, he’s the kind of guy FN-2187 might take a furtive, cover-of-night type interest in. Relationships of that sort are strictly prohibited inside the barracks, but of course that’s never stopped anyone when the officers’ backs are turned.

It might stop Ren. In FN-2187’s experience, there are two kinds of people who end up in positions of power: the ones who are above the law, and the ones who are fucking married to it. It's too early to say for sure, but Ren doesn't _feel_ like a hypocrite.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” FN-2187 says, before his better judgement can stop him.

“Mm,” says Ren, distracted by a length of wire that’s poking out of the comlink case.

“You didn’t come up through the army, right? You came from outside.” Ren looks up, raising an eyebrow, and FN-2187 quickly adds, “I mean, you’re not a soldier or an officer or anything. The whole Order knows who you are but none of us know where you came from. You’re more like those old Imperial stories – a Sith lord or something?”

Ren’s lips twitch; FN-2187 gets the vibe that he’s pleased by the question. “Not exactly. The Sith religion died a long time ago, but the Supreme Leader is working to restore the dark side of the Force that’s fallen dormant in their absence. He serves the Force, and I serve him, and soon the galaxy will serve us both. It’s his vision of ascension that gave rise to the whole First Order.”

“Oh,” says FN-2187. They never covered that part in stormtrooper training. Phasma’s curriculum is heavy on ethics – the virtues of conformity and self-erasure, the importance of absolute loyalty to the Order – but light on any trace of organised religion.

He doesn’t say any of it aloud, but Ren nods knowingly anyway, like this is some kind of proper dialogue they’re having. “The average corpsman doesn’t need to know the whole picture. But if you’re loyal to the Order – the Order, trooper, not just whoever’s holding your registration papers – you need to think a little bigger than what Phasma or Hux or Sergeant Calvo teach you.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” says FN-2187. So, not a hypocrite – a zealot. Which is safer. And also far, far more dangerous.

“You’re skeptical.”

FN-2187’s heart leaps to his throat. “No, sir. Not at all. No skepticism from me. I’m right on board.”

There’s that little almost-smile again. FN-2187’s pulse is still racing, but Ren just goes back to the broken comlink, and it doesn’t look like he’s at any immediate risk of switching to full loyalty-inquiry mode. He prods the loose wire back inside the case, adjusts it for a minute, then turns the case over and presses the power button and says: “Okay, that should do it.”

Hux answers the call like he’s been waiting by the line. His voice rings clear through the speaker, even on private conversation mode. “For pity’s sake, Ren, where have you been? You missed your check-in yesterday and I had no good answer for Leader Snoke as to why you’d suddenly dropped off our radar.”

Ren holds the comlink a bit further away from his ear. “We were attacked,” he says. “A band of Rakatan rebels ambushed us, we couldn’t–”

“Yes, you and all the rest of us,” Hux snaps. “The rebel scum have overrun the whole western border and my forces are rallying against them as we speak. Your Desten mission will have to wait until we’ve cleaned up this mess. How soon can you make it back to the capital?”

Ren’s gaze flicks over to FN-2187, who makes a quick grab for the nearest task so it doesn’t look too much like he’s standing there eavesdropping. The blankets they slept in last night need shaking out and packing up. The sun’s rays have already warmed up the sand – by mid-morning they’re more likely to be too hot than too cold.

The blankets smell like Ren. That’s a scent FN-2187 knows now, which is just plain fucking weird. He tries to imagine explaining this to his corps buddies back at base: _No, you guys, Kylo Ren’s just some human dude, no tentacles or anything. He’s really into his woo-woo religion and he likes being the little spoon._

“As soon as you send someone to collect us,” Ren tells Hux over the comlink. “The whole detachment’s dead and our transport’s down. It’s just me and the sanitation trooper out here.”

“Sani–” Hux splutters. “Ren. Why did you take a _sanitation_ trooper on a mission like this?”

“Ask that idiot Calvo. He’s the one who did the assignments.”

Even though technically he’s the one being put down, FN-2187 can’t help but feel a small thrill at hearing high command refer to his least favourite sergeant as ‘that idiot’. Ren gives him a funny look and then adds, lips quirking: “Tell Calvo that once I get back I’ll be personally looking into why his elite VC commando unit proved so much less durable than a single non-combat trooper with a mop.”

Hux gives a curt little sniff. “If you insist,” he says, as FN-2187 chews his tongue to keep from laughing. “But for now, Ren, we’ve got bigger problems to worry about. Much as I hate the thought of you leaving you stranded out there, I’m afraid I can’t spare the personnel for a rescue mission while our outpost is under siege. You’re going to have to hunker down and wait.” From where FN-2187 is standing, the concern in Hux’s voice doesn’t sound all that sincere. “Do you think you can stay safe for another night?”

A muscle twitches beneath Ren’s eye. “By the sound of it, you should be more worried about yourself. Does the Supreme Leader know that your forces are proving so unequal to the rebel threat?”

Oh, this is better than a holodrama. FN-2187 hides his grin in his folding work and hears Hux say, “No doubt you’ll have plenty of time to plan your report while you wait for me to rescue you.”

“No doubt,” says Ren through gritted teeth.

He ends the call, takes several slow, deep breaths, and then throws the newly mended comlink hard at the rock.

“I still don’t know how to fix that thing,” FN-2187 blurts, as shock unhitches his mouth from his self-preservation instincts.

“Yeah, well,” says Ren, his voice raw with barely checked anger. “Think of it as a project. We need something to keep us entertained until Hux’s rescue deigns to show up.”

“That’s everything taken care of, then,” says FN-2187. Two or three more days. They’ve got the rations for it. Survival training isn’t a huge part of the stormtrooper curriculum, but FN-2187 knows enough to keep himself going, and Ren seems fairly self-sufficient. It could be worse. It could be a whole hell of a lot better, but it also could be worse.

Except he forgot one very important thing: life loves a chance to punish overconfidence.

–

“I don’t like the look of that,” Ren says.

He’s standing on a small boulder looking out at the horizon. Or trying to, at least – the clean line of dune-waves that used to mark the horizon has erupted into an angry orange haze, and already the vanguard winds are making it hard to look directly at the storm without copping an eyeful of airborne grit.

“Can we make it back to the groundcar?” FN-2187 asks.

Dark, windswept hair lashes Ren’s face with theatrical flair. “At the speed that sandstorm’s moving, we’ll never make it. And we’d be walking right into a rebel trap if we did.”

“Well, we have to do something!” Dramatic hair sweeps are all well and good, but FN-2187 isn’t keen to find out what it feels like to be caught in a Lehon sandstorm. His mind supplies visions of a trillion tiny desert flechettes stripping the wind-beaten skin from his bones.

Ren’s narrowed eyes sweep the area and land on a fissure in the sandstone overhang. It’s nothing. Lizard-sized. “I have an idea,” he says. “But I want you to know going in that if I fuck it up, that whole rock might collapse and we’ll definitely die of exposure.”

“Oh,” says FN-2187. “Good to know.”

Before he can ask if there’s a plan B they could try instead, Ren jumps down off the boulder – the wind carries him further than should be possible for a man his size – and draws a black metal hilt from inside his tunic. With an unstable crackle, the blood-red lightsaber that haunts the barracks rumour mill surges to life right before FN-2187’s eyes.

“You can do this,” says Ren – to himself, or maybe to the lightsaber. Then he plunges it inside the fissure. FN-2187 winces for whatever small reptiles are in there trying to shelter from the storm.

The plasma blade cuts the rock with an almighty crackling sound. Nothing collapses. With a surprising amount of speed, Ren starts carving into the rock face, opening up the fissure. There’s only so much progress he can expect to make before the storm hits, but there’s nothing FN-2187 can do to help except watch with bated breath and emanate the strongest encouraging vibes he can muster. The sand is starting to swirl up around them and the winds are getting dangerous.

“That’ll have to do,” Ren shouts over the howling storm.

FN-2187 grabs the pack, crouches down and follows Ren inside the new hollow. There’s no room to stand up straight. The ground is littered with chunks of disintegrated sandstone. “It’s not deep enough,” he says. “The winds will come right through–”

“Come in as far as you can,” Ren says.” He’s stretching out his hand towards FN-2187 – towards the opening – no. His focus is outside the hollow. FN-2187 turns his head in the narrow space, just in time to see the boulder Ren was standing on now floating its way towards them, trailing sand. It drops back down to earth right in front of their hiding place.

And just in time. The sun outside has disappeared behind clouds of dust, bleeding dim light through the gaps around the entrance to paint the walls a rusty twilight grey. The storm hits with an eerie howl, hammering the rock face in thwarted rage. Sagging with relief, neck aching from stooping so low inside the cave, FN-2187 sinks to the ground and leans back against the sandstone.

“Sir, that was amazing,” hesays. He doesn’t feel all that amazed. He feels cramped and crowded and still way too juiced on adrenaline to be sitting still for this long. But he’s alive, and safe, and it seems churlish not to mention it.

“Thanks,” Ren says. He sounds about the way FN-2187 feels. And then, “Good thinking to save the supplies.”

“I was lucky they were packed and easy to grab,” FN-2187 deflects, before he remembers that he was the one who packed them earlier.

They’re very close inside the cave. Close enough that every time Ren breathes, FN-2187 feels the air move – or maybe that’s the draught leaking in around the edges of the boulder. Hopefully the latter, actually, since he doesn’t really want to have to choose between dying in a storm outside and suffocating inside an airless cave. But they’re definitely close.

“Pass me the bag,” says Ren.

Their hands brush as he passes it over. Ren rummages inside and pulls out supplies: a glowrod, which solves the lack of visibility if not the lack of legroom. A water canteen, which he takes a deep swig from before passing over to FN-2187. And then, from the first aid kit, a pair of surgical scissors and a fresh roll of bacta. He holds his injured arm next to the light and unwinds the bandage.

It’s a nasty-looking plasma burn. Must have got hit by one of the enemy’s blaster bolts. “Ouch,” FN-2187 blurts.

“It’s fine,” Ren says, rolling his eyes for reasons FN-2187 can guess at but not sympathise with. He’s never understood the tough-guy urge to pretend like pain is for other people. Everyone knows it hurts when you get shot.

“Yeah, sure looks fine. Especially that part where your skin got burned to a blackened crisp.”

He remembers who he’s giving lip to a split second after the words leave his mouth. But while his insides curdle in horror, Ren cuts a long strip off the bacta roll and says, “It’s just dried blood. Stop being a drama queen and help me.”

Tough-guy act or not, his jaw tightens visibly when FN-2187 takes his wrist – he’s trying his best to avoid touching burned skin – and anchors the fresh bacta around Ren’s palm. Up close, the wound looks inflamed and painful but not too grim, already shiny-white with new skin where the bacta has started doing its job. It should heal without a scar as long as he keeps refreshing the wraps.

FN-2187 winds the bacta tightly all the way up to the crook of Ren’s arm, where thin blue veins run like tiny rivers beneath the surface. Up here there’s only the tail end of damage, radiating out from the wound site like a mild pink-red sunburn. FN-2187 rubs his thumb over a patch of it; the skin is already starting to flake.

Ren sucks air sharply through his teeth.

“Sorry,” says FN-2187 quickly. He’s meant to be tying off the wrap, not fucking caressing the injury site. He can’t explain why the sight of Ren’s tender skin and those vulnerable elbow-veins hold such a weird fascination for him – bodies are bodies are bodies. He’s seen enough of them in the barracks. But he just watched Ren make a boulder float with nothing but the force of his mind, and that’s not what bodies _do_. It’s not what normal human guys with breakable bones and tearable skin and a soft ticking pulse do. “You said it didn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t.” Ren turns his head away. It’s hard to tell in the patchy light, but for some reason, it looks like a bit of blood has risen to his cheeks.

As soon as the bacta wrap is tied off, he shuffles back away from FN-2187. Given that the cave is barely big enough to fit them both crouched down, the act yields underwhelming results. They’re still close enough that FN-2187 could reach out and touch him with a half-bent arm.

For a while, they just sit.

The sandstorm rages on. FN-2187’s relief at being out of its reach starts to give way to grumpy, restless claustrophobia – it’s not like he has anything important to be doing while they wait for their rescue, but at least outside he could stretch his legs. In here there’s absolutely nothing to do but sit and wait.

Ren seems to be struggling with the same thing. He’s rummaging around in the bag again, disarranging all FN-2187’s careful packing work, and somewhere right at the bottom he finds what he’s looking for: a little hexagonal box that rattles distinctively when he shakes it.

“Hey, trooper,” he says. “Do you know how to play sabacc?”

“Hell yeah, I–”

“You shouldn’t. Gambling’s against barracks regulations.”

FN-2187 shrinks back into himself. “Nope, never played sabacc in my life. What’s sabacc? I don’t even know what that is. You’ll have to teach me how to play.”

Ren just smirks. “Yeah, yeah, unwind. I’ll deal us in.”

Right. Ren can afford to joke about barracks regulations – he’s not the one who’ll get bailed up for reeducation if he breaks them. His taunting sense of humour was a lot more fun before when it was aimed at Hux and Calvo.

But it’s not in FN-2187’s best interests to take offense when they’re stuck together in a space this small. “You’re on, sir. But I should warn you before we start, I always play to win.”

“Good luck with that,” says Ren.

–

Disgusted, FN-2187 tosses his used hand at Ren to shuffle back into the deck. Again. Fuck he hates losing, even when it’s fake.

“Good game,” he says through gritted teeth.

Their bets started out more or less reasonable – the first choice of dinner rations, the use of the supply bag as a pillow tonight, the less draughty side of the cave to sleep on – but with nothing better to think about, they've gradually descended into a kind of self-torturing fantasy that neither of them has the power to deliver on, now or in the future. Or at least, FN-2187 doesn’t. Which is fine by him, since so far Ren holds all the takings anyway: a ten-course tasting banquet in a Coruscant fine dining house, a week-long leave of absence to a holiday resort in the mid rim, and next up –

“A long, hot shower as soon as we get home,” says Ren, studying his new hand.

FN-2187 looks down at his own. He’s at negative three, but who cares? “Forget the shower, I want a bath. A nice leisurely soak with myocaine salt and one of those big, soft, fluffy towels.”

“How about a spa? One with massage jets.”

“Now you’re talking. But I'll raise you a steam room afterwards.”

“Done.”

Ren lands at twenty-two. Of course. “You're not very good at this, trooper.”

“I'm lulling you into a false sense of security,” FN-2187 grumbles. “You'll never see it coming when I show my real hand.”

“Your real hand’s already visible from orbit.” Ren looks thoughtful. “There's something off about you, FN-2187.”

“I don't cheat at cards, if that's what you mean.”

“That much is obvious.” Ren looks up. The deck of cards rests unshuffled in his palm, and his eyes are like sinkholes in the torchlit gloom. It's not the expression of a man whose thoughts are focused on a card game. “You’re so open. Everything you feel is right there on the surface of your mind. There’s no discipline about you. You're not hiding anything or tamping your emotions down. You don't feel like a stormtrooper at all.”

That's not where FN-2187 expected their conversation to go. _There's no discipline about you_ is feedback he hears from his chain of command roughly once a week, but he has the sense that Ren means something a little bit different by it.

“Felt a lot of stormtroopers, have you?” he tosses off, since he doesn’t know what else to say.

Ren stares at him. He looks appalled, and it hits FN-2187 a bit too late that the casual-bawdy style of humour he’s used to at the barracks probably isn’t quite as in vogue with high command. “I didn’t mean–”

“I didn’t mean–” says Ren at exactly the same time.

“Sorry, sir, I just meant–”

“I wouldn't–”

“I’m sorry–”

“Totally inappropriate.”

“I know that, sir.”

Ren shifts in place and looks away, and FN-2187 silently curses his wayward mouth for getting the best of him right in the middle of what could just as easily have been a comfortable bonding moment.

It’s just that there was something odd about Ren’s phrasing: right there on the surface of his mind. He doesn’t _think_ Ren means that he can literally read minds, but there’s enough nightmare fuel in that thought to last FN-2187 for months. And he’s already seen some scary shit on this trip of theirs.

Scary, and yet weirdly not-scary. If you’d told FN-2187 in advance that this deployment was going to land him playing cards and sharing a bed with Supreme Leader Snoke’s personal apprentice, he’d have gladly broken his own leg to get out of it. But now he’s here and … well, it’s not so bad. In an alternate reality where he wasn’t a million rungs down from Ren on the status ladder, he’d be sorely tempted to keep prodding at this little display of prudish awkwardness. There’s no mistaking it – Ren’s face is red. There are dozens of ways he could have interpreted FN-2187’s offhand comment, but he went straight to the dirtiest one and now he’s fucking squirming like a shy cadet.

And they’ve still got to share a bed again tonight. Honestly, if the offer came up, FN-2187 wouldn’t even be complaining. Fraternisation laws aside, he’s heard all kinds of gossip about the things that happen between commanders and subordinates when no one’s watching. He still remembers the warmth of Ren’s body this morning and the tickle of Ren’s breath against the soft skin of his neck. There are worse ways to break the law, and way worse people to break it with.

Ren shuffles the sabacc deck. FN-2187 shakes his head to clear it. Clearly, they’ve been alone too long together and the isolation is getting to them both.

–

The darkness outside doesn’t change. Bleary eyes and drooping heads tell them it’s time to sleep.

On the upside, the cave is doing wonders to trap in warmth: even with the draught from outside, the cold doesn’t bite the way it did last night. It’s nice, in a weird way, being in here while the planet rages and storms and freezes outside. The space that felt claustrophobic in the daytime is pleasantly cosy and burrow-like at night.

But on the downside, there’s barely room to move. Ren pulls the blankets out of the bag so they can lie down together, and there’s just enough space for them both to stretch out lengthwise, but it’s such a close fit that FN-2187’s face is inches from the wall when he lies on his side.

He drifts off, or he thinks he does – at some point he feels Ren roll over to face him, and at another point he’s half-aware of deciding to do the same, and without really thinking about it he wraps his free arm around Ren’s body and sinks back into darkness. It feels somehow totally natural and normal.

He wakes again a while later, and the storm outside is still roaring at exactly the same frequency. Ren’s fast asleep. He must be, because he’s snuggled so close that his mouth is on FN-2187’s collarbone, not moving or doing anything, just a gentle touch of lips and a hot puff of breath on skin. Once FN-2187’s awake to notice, he’s properly awake. It’s hard not to be.

Speaking of hard – that’s definitely Ren’s cock jutting into his hip. Bodies do that in their sleep. But knowing it’s innocent doesn’t stop the heat that creeps through FN-2187’s veins as his own body responds to the thought that, after all, Ren really does just work like any other person he’s ever met.

Ren wriggles a little. Not so fast asleep after all. FN-2187 feels his breath hitch, and after a moment he hears his muffled voice: “I swear this isn’t on purpose.”

“Is it ever?” FN-2187 could move away, in theory. Not very far, because the sandstone wall is right there behind him. But it’s academic anyway. He really doesn’t feel like moving. “Shit happens on deployment, sir.”

Fuck it. It’s not that big a deal. As soon as this ill-fated mission is over, Ren’s going to go back to his important top-tier life with the Order, and FN-2187 will melt back into the anonymous pool of several million stormtroopers all wearing the exact same helmet. How they entertain themselves until then is irrelevant.

The rate of FN-2187’s pulse is irrelevant, and so’s the way his nerve endings are lighting up of their own volition.

Ren doesn’t move away, so FN-2187 shifts a little to offer his thigh as a friction point instead of his jutting hipbone. He has a theory – going from what he’s seen so far, and also going by the trembly rigidity of Ren’s body, neither pulling away nor pushing into the offer – that for Ren, shit doesn’t actually happen on deployment all that often.

“I was lying before,” FN-2187 says. “About that innuendo being an accident.”

“I know,” says Ren. “You’re way too easy to read.”

“I don’t mind you touching me. If you want to, I mean. You’re the boss. I’m cool either way.” Okay. That didn’t come out quite as inviting as he wanted it to. He’s cool either way, but apparently he has a much stronger preference than he ever expected going in.

“I know that too,” says Ren.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Ren’s quiet for a while. FN-2187 can feel his erection and the heat of his body and the easy way they fit together, and man, he’d love Ren to make up his mind so he can either start grinding or roll back over and swallow his disappointment. At this point, it’s going to be equally awkward either way. No way out but through.

“I guess there isn’t one,” says Ren at last.

It’s such a relief when FN-2187 can finally give in to what his body wants. For all his bravado, he hasn’t actually done this all that often – just a couple of times, with a couple of different guys from his corps who saw things the same way he did. Human bodies out in the field, wanting comfort, wanting closeness. He rolls his hips, and with a barely audible sigh Ren buries his face back in FN-2187’s shoulder and presses against him.

It’s slow. Halting. Hesitant. His guess was right – this isn’t something Ren does often either, maybe ever. So FN-2187 takes a firmer grasp of his hip and sets a steady rhythm as they grind together. Every muscle in Ren’s body is taut. His breath hitches again, and FN-2187 wants more than just the suggestive bulge of Ren’s cock inside his trousers. He wants to touch him properly and feel exactly what he’s like when mask and rank are stripped away.

But when he tries to roll them over, Ren doesn’t budge. He either misses the hint or is digging his heels in at being told what to do. “Roll on your back,” FN-2187 says, on the self-serving assumption that it’s the former. “Lemme take care of this.”

“This?”

“You.”

Ren rolls. FN-2187 tosses the blankets back – with the extra heat of their bodies, they don’t need them right now – and palms his cock, just through the trousers at first. He feels out the length of it and squeezes the head. Ren makes a choked little sound in his throat.

FN-2187 unfastens Ren’s trousers to expose him properly, and there he is. Completely normal all the way down, never mind his eerie vibe or his high rank or his mysterious boulder-moving powers. Although he can’t see him in the dark of the cave, FN-2187 can feel how much Ren wants this: there’s a damp bead of precome at the head of his cock and a vein that throbs when he squeezes lightly. He straddles Ren’s thighs and bends to kiss the soft skin of his stomach, feeling warmth and wiry hair beneath his lips. He smells like twenty-four hours worth of sand and sweat, but it’s not unpleasant – kind of musky. Weirdly intimate. His lips graze the tip of Ren’s cock, just brushing, and Ren jolts like he’s been electrocuted.

More of that, then.

Even the smallest of sounds are amplified inside the closed cave. When he takes Ren’s cock properly into his mouth, his groan fills the whole space, quiet but urgent. They’re in no rush and there’s no risk of getting caught, but FN-2187 has no idea how to take his time – this is something he’s always done furtively, frantically. He relaxes his throat and enjoys the way Ren’s cock twitches and the way his breath turns raw and ragged. At the same time he’s grinding against Ren’s leg, matching his thrusts to the rhythm of his bobbing head.

He’s going to get off just like this, no problem. Already he can feel his balls drawing tight with the thrill and friction of it, can feel his heart accelerating when Ren grabs his shoulders and the back of his head and claws, holding him there, breathing hard –

Whoa. Whoa, not good, not like this. Not unless FN-2187 wants to spend a very sticky, uncomfortable night with no refresher facilities and no extra water to clean off with. He tries to slow down – he stops thrusting, at least – but when he goes to pull his mouth away, Ren holds tighter and gasps, “Don’t stop."

It could just as easily be an order as a plea. Right now, the difference is abstract: Ren likes this, wants more of it, _needs_ more of it, and the sheer hotness of that fact overrides any instinct FN-2187 might have for self-assertion. He puts his own impending orgasm on slow-burn and concentrates on what he’s doing with his mouth. Slack throat. Soft jaw. Swallow deep, just a little suction, not too much. Plenty of tongue.

He doesn’t have to hold out much longer. Ren comes with a strangled cry, no warning, trembling and breathless and holding on like a lifeline until he slackens and pulses with the last few aftershocks.

He swears. Pants for breath. Melts back into the floor. FN-2187 pulls off his cock, swallowing hard and forcing his gag reflex not to rear its unwelcome head. He’d love to be able to see Ren’s face, but he has to settle for the shaky sound of his sigh and the way his voice cracks when he says, again, “Don’t stop.”

FN-2187 blinks. “Seriously? You still want–”

“I mean you.”

“Oh.”

Ren reaches out and runs his hands down FN-2187’s sides. Past his hips. Over his thighs and back up again. Around behind him to grab his –

“Oh,” FN-2187 says again, as Ren cups his ass with both hands. Keeping himself out of the way this time, nudging one thigh between FN-2187’s legs and urging him to move, he grinds until the darkness of the cave is full of blinking stars. “Wait, I’m gonna make a mess–”

“Here.” FN-2187 could have sworn the supply bag was out of Ren’s reach. But he’s somehow holding a dry wipe from the medkit, which is better than nothing, and admittedly FN-2187 isn’t paying a lot of attention now that Ren is freeing his cock from his bodyglove and replacing the friction of his thigh with a long, firm, stroking grip.

Fuck. He’s grabbing his ass with one hand, jerking him off with the other, and FN-2187 only barely has the coordination to cup the head of his cock with the wipe before he goes off. His orgasm feels like a punch to the gut in the fucking best way. He sags when it’s over, slumping into Ren, two sated bodies warm and relaxed and sheltered from the world.

Ren doesn’t seem to mind that all seventy-odd kilos of FN-2187 have collapsed on top of him. He’s stroking idly up and down his spine. After a long while during which the silence is broken only by the storm and their own slowing breath, he says: “You really are fucking weird for a trooper.”

Pillow talk clearly isn’t one of his talents. “That’s what all my superiors say,” FN-2187 mumbles, not bothering to lift his head off Ren’s chest. He can tell him to move if he wants to.

“You stand out. Troopers aren’t supposed to stand out, but you – it’s like you actually want to be noticed.”

“I do want to be noticed,” FN-2187 says, since the professional-behaviour ship sailed exactly two orgasms ago. No point throwing up barriers now. “Everyone wants to be noticed, don’t they?”

“No,” says Ren. “Most people want quiet, obedient lives.” His fingers find a notch in FN-2187’s spine and rest there. “That’s why they need the Order to guide them.”

It’s a line FN-2187 has heard a million times before. Not usually right after sex, but it’s always been part of the official canon. Only there’s something off about the way Ren says the word _obedient_. It’s not Phasma’s bold directive or Hux’s frothing mania, but something subdued and much more personal.

“That’s why we _all_ need the Order to guide us,” Ren says. Weirdly insistent now. Why’s he so insistent?

“I’m grateful for the Order’s guidance,” FN-2187 says. “Of course I am. It’s just–” He shrugs. Pressed flush against Ren’s chest, the gesture becomes an odd little wriggle. “Sometimes it’s nice to have something for yourself as well, you know?”

Ren breathes deep. “I guess so,” he says. “But if you learned to fall in line, maybe you’d make decent officer material someday.”

“If I learned to fall in line,” FN-2187 says, “you wouldn’t have noticed in the first place."

Ren doesn't answer that.

–

The storm blows itself out overnight. When they emerge from the cave come morning – Ren pushes aside the boulder like it’s nothing – they find a thick coat of yellow-white sand over everything and a convoy approaching on the horizon.

Ren puts his helmet back on. His weirdly endearing face, beakish nose and all, disappears behind a warlike mask of black and chrome that glitters in the sun until it hurts to look at.

He hasn’t mentioned what happened last night.

The convoy draws closer. Three groundcars, bristling with mounted guns and pushing up a thick cloud of dust in their path; a nimble speeder rushing on ahead. The First Order’s red-and-black flag flies proud above it.

“Looks like that’s our ride,” FN-2187 says, completely unnecessarily. It’s impossible to tell whether Ren is actually looking at him. After a few moments of silence, he adds: “It’s been fun, sir.”

“Yeah,” says Ren. His voice crackles through the vocoder with artificial menace. The convoy will be here before too long. “It has.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited about Finnlo Fest! It's been really inspiring to see everyone's prompts and enjoy these great fills. Thanks so much to finnlomod for organising it.
> 
> Feedback is love! <3


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